


Please

by PrinceNux



Category: Original Work, Robots - Fandom
Genre: Another school assignment, Do not doubt my ability to make anything sad, My teacher was so kick ass last year, Other, Short Story, The robot gives the humans nicknames, This is surprisingly not bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceNux/pseuds/PrinceNux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do, in a post-apocalyptic world ravaged by wars, with a Combat Robot who refuses to fight?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please

My very first, and my very last words were, “please.”

 

I do not remember a before time. There was no before time. There is no time. I was born into darkness. But, maybe “born” isn’t the right word. I have no mother and no father. I do not breathe. I do not cry. I do not feel. I am not alive. No heart beats between my ribs. 

 

I am made of unbreakable plastic, metal, and gears. To humans, I am known as a robot. But, to the people that created me, I am a Combat Robot. Myself, and all the others, were built to fight in the wars being waged across the world. There are not enough human soldiers to fill the front lines. Humans die. But, robots do not die. We cannot be killed. Losing an arm or a leg will not stop us. We will keep on coming. We do not stop. It never stops. Nothing ever stops. 

 

The first time I woke up after being built, it was dark. But, it is hard to wake up without eyelids. Without eyes. I did not know what to do. My limbs would not move. I could hear the other robots in the vast warehouse; they moved together, as one, and the clanking sound of metal feet hitting a concrete floor assaulted my ears. 

 

Ears? Yes. I suppose that I do have those. But, why no eyes? I need my eyes. 

 

My silicone lips part, and a single word slips out, small and frightened, “please.”

 

Suddenly, there is a gruff voice, “huh. Looks like we forgot your eyes.”

Turning my head towards the voice, I nod in agreement. 

 

The voice moves away, then yells to another worker, “number 678 needs eyes.”

Another voice answers, “what color?”

Gruff voice answers back, impatience obvious in the tone, “who cares? Just get a pair down here quick!”

 

The first voice and I wait silently for the second voice to come down with my eyes. 

Just as the silence was about to become excruciating, even though I had no intention of filling it, the sound of heavy boots on metal stairs fills the warehouse. 

 

Hands clasp the sides of my face. I try to move away, but am reminded that I cannot. 

The voice, the softer one, pats my cheek reassuringly, before shoving a circular shaped _ something _ into my empty eye socket. 

 

The hands do this to my other socket, and the sound of wires connecting to the artificial orbs inside my head hurt my ears.

 

It takes a few moments for the wires to all connect, but, once they are done, I shake my head around a bit, and realize that I can see.

 

Unfortunately, there is not much to see. Everything is gray. The floors, the walls and ceilings, even the two workers are wearing gray work clothes. 

I look at them, really look at them. 

 

The two men are about the same size, though where one is thin, the other is burly. Both of their faces are marred with deep grooves which I take to be scars. Despite the purple circles under them from many sleepless nights, they have very nice and kind eyes.

 

The thin one says, “okay. Now that you can see us, I’m…..”

He doesn’t get to finish, though, because the burly one has whacked him on the back of the head.

“No names, you dolt,” he says.

 

The burly one -who, surprisingly, is the one with the soft voice- speaks again, saying, “okay, 678. Now that that’s out of the way, I’ll unlock your system so you can move around.”

 

He signals towards the top of the stairs, to someone I can’t see. There’s a click, and I can move. The first thing that happens is my knees buckle from the sudden freedom, and I find myself on my hands and knees on the floor. 

 

Gruff -the thin man- pulls me back to my feet. I give him a nod of thanks, and suddenly feel very alone as they turn to walk away.

I take a wobbly step after them, not wanting to be left alone in this dank place, but Soft turns and says, “you have to stay here. We’ll come and get you when it’s time for training.”

 

Training, I think to myself as I wander around the warehouse. That means fighting, and fighting means guns. I don’t like guns. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to take part in this war. I can’t.

 

This train of thought whirls around and around in my head, so much that, when another robot puts a hand on my shoulder, I almost hit them. 

After I turn to face them, the robot says, “we’re going to go outside and take a look at the compound. I was told to come and get you.”

I nod, and follow the group of other bots out a side door that I honestly hadn’t noticed. 

 

Once outside, I immediately want to go back in. 

Smoke rises up from the barren ground, wafting around our legs. The ground is cracked all over, there’s not an animal or other human in sight. What trees left standing are burnt all over. There is no green. No color. The world has died. 

 

I don’t know how long we are outside, but once a worker comes to get us, I have to restrain myself from running inside. 

 

The worker leads us back through the warehouse’s main room, and then down a hallway into another room. 

After instructing us to sit in chairs pushed up against the wall, the worker exits the room, and is replaced by another worker. 

The new one, who also doesn’t give their name, walks to the front of the room, and sets up a slideshow. 

 

Accompanied by horrible pictures of dead people and animals and other parts of the world that have been totally gutted, they tell us about how the first attack happened five years ago in 2085. Nobody knows the exact reason, but it had just gone downhill from there.

 

“That is why you were built,” they say, gesturing to all of us, “we need an army that cannot die to help us defeat the enemy. You are combat robots. Your sole purpose it to keep us safe. If you do not comply to this, you  _ will _ be decommissioned.” 

 

This scares me. I do not want to fight. But, I do not want to “die.” I do not want to hurt anybody. Especially people. Their bodies are brittle and unprotected. They have bones in place of wires, and bones can break and bend. I do not want to kill. 

 

We are signalled to leave the room. 

 

My days pass like this for what feels like an eternity. This is made even more pronounced by my lack of sense of time. All I know is that the sun rises, and when it goes to bed, the moon rises. I spend my nights sitting outside of the warehouse, leaning up against a wall, watching the moon. 

 

I am outside, watching the sunrise, when a person, wearing fatigues and a helmet that hides their face, pulls me roughly to my feet, and then drags me around to the front of the warehouse. 

A part of my wants to resist. I know that I could break the human’s arm if I really wanted to. I could escape. I could be free.

 

Free? No. There is nowhere in this world that I can be free. But, I do not want to fight. I do not. 

 

I am shoved into the back of a truck, landing on my knees. 

As the doors are closed, I am helped to my feet by metal hands. 

Once I am back on my feet, I smile and nod my thanks, before sinking down onto the benches lining the sides of the truck. 

 

There are ten of us, including myself. Even though we are few, the truck is still cramped. But, it is nice to be close to others of my kind. 

 

The truck jerks to a stop, and we are all thrown against each other. 

But, when the doors are thrown open, we quickly untangle ourselves and stand to attention.

A human, again with a helmet and fatigues, beckons to us silently, and we follow after them as they walk away from the truck.

 

Over the crest of a hill, there is a range, with little cubicles lined up side by side, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. If I had a stomach, it would have dropped. Probably into my feet.

There is nothing but the sound of ten robots entering the cubicles, and picking up the guns. But, while the other nine load bullets into the chambers, I drop my gun back to the ground. 

I stand there, not sure what to do.

 

Suddenly, there is a flash of color by my feet. I tense, ready to attack, then the color moves.

Bending down, I notice brightly colored wings. 

It’s a butterfly.

 

I lay my hand down on the ground by it, and bring the hand back up to eye-level, with the butterfly resting on a finger.

I stare at the little bug in awe.

It is beautiful.

The first real beauty I have seen since “waking up.”

 

Suddenly, the person that brought us out of the truck is standing in front of me. 

Without a word, they reach over and crush the butterfly in a clenched fist.

My mouth drops open.

“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?” they ask.

I do not answer.

 

I am led back to the truck in silence. I can tell that they are angry with me. 

 

After the other combat robots are done with training, we are taken back to the warehouse.

Once we get there, I go to follow the others inside, but am stopped by a hand pulling me back.

Turning, I recognize the scarred faces of Soft and Gruff.

Gruff says, “you have to come with us, 678.”

 

I obey, letting them lead me around to the back of the warehouse.

Soft places me up against a wall, then goes back to stand by Gruff.

 

I look at them, tilting my head in question. 

The only answer I receive is Gruff pulling a handgun out of one of the pockets on his work clothes.

He walks over to me, and places the gun in the center of my head.

 

He turns off the safety.

 

“We can’t have a combat robot that won’t fight,” he says.

 

My lips part, and I speak for the second time in my whole existence. 

 

“Please.”

 

He pulls the trigger. 


End file.
